Rain Can Hardly Hurt Me Now
by InkOnHerHands
Summary: Enjolras doesn't have instant coffee, there's raspberry vodka on the walls and glass on the floor, and Courfeyrac gets a call that will change their lives forever.


_You're going to need to find some strength, now, to wake up_

_- Patrick Wolf_

They're all at Enjolras and Grantaire's apartment simply because it's raining, and none of them want to walk the few blocks to the Musain when Grantaire has booze and Enjolras has coffee and they have the largest apartment out of everyone in the group. Enjolras is still at class, and so they've smooshed into what available space there is, as they always do, while they wait for him to come back. Musichetta has comandeered the sofa and is perfectly happy to be bookended by her boys, one arm around Bosuette's neck and the other wrapped around a mug of tea, Joly's head in her lap as he laments the lack of decent central heating in student accomodation. Grantaire is slowly disappearing into one of the two beanbags that he managed to convince Enjolras they absolutely needed, and his hand is curled around a small bottle of red _something_ that includes raspberry vodka and various other alchoholic beverages that no one questions because it's R. Eponine is helping Bahorel make coffee, which turns out to be a much harder task than expected because seriously, who _doesn't _have instant coffee anywhere in the whole apartment? Combeferre is watching their progress, occasionally pointing out that, no, you don't use a tea strainer for making coffee, his glasses steaming up every time he takes a sip of his kiwi and strawberry herbal brew. Feuilly is reading on the floor, his back against the wall as he buries his nose in some novel or other. Cosette and Marius are sharing an armchair and giggling softly to each other, and Courfeyrac and Jehan are occupying the other sofa, Jehan curled up on Courfeyrac's lap as the latter peppers his neck with soft kisses.

Courfeyrac's phone buzzes, and he shifts to slip it out of his back pocket, one arm still curled loosely around Jehan's waist. The poet makes a soft noise of discontent in the back of his throat, and Courfeyrac presses another kiss to the back of his neck in an apology as he puts the phone to his ear.

"y'eeeello?" He answers cheerfully, stretching the vowel out on his tongue like a child. But something's wrong, and his greeting dies in his throat when he hears the noise on the other end of the phone. Someone, a distinctly feminine someone, is... sobbing.

"Hello?" Courfeyrac repeats in a very different tone, and Jehan twists in his lap to shoot him a look of concern. Courfeyrac - for quite possibly the first time ever - ignores him, as the edges of his lips turn down and his brows crease into a frown that doesn't sit right on his normally mirthful face. He's not used to women sobbing when they call him, and that - combined with the fact that all of his female friends are _in the same room as him _and he hasn't heard from any of his old mistresses since that last disastrous date with Aimee just before he met Jehan - is enough make his pulse speed up slightly with worry.

"Monsieur Courfeyrac?" The woman stutters thickly, and Courfeyrac pulls the phone away to check the caller ID, because he's pretty sure that no one in his phonebook would call him 'Monsieur'. His lips part slightly in utter confusion when the familiar name shines benignly up at him, because try as he might he can't match the sobbing woman to the name of his best friend.

"Yes, speaking?"

The others are all listening now. Combeferre is leant against the counter, watching with that quiet analytical air that he always adopts when anything doesn't seem right. Jehan has slipped off of Courfeyrac's lap to the sofa, and he takes the hand from around his waist and holds it tightly, entwining their fingers with a look of great concern. All conversations have ceased, and silence hangs thickly in the air like a cloud. Courfeyrac ignores them all, instead staring very hard at the carpet and listening intently as he tries to decipher words from the gasps and hiccups coming from the phone.

"Courfeyrac, this is Marie Enjolras"

Courfeyrac blinks, trying to match the name to a face in his mind. With a jolt he realises that of course, this must be Enjolras's mother, whom Courfeyrac has never met but has occasionally heard of. He doesn't have time to process the odd caller before she continues to talk, her voice thick and breathless and stuttering on every other word. "I just though you should know, and you were the first name in the phone book and he's mentioned you before and so I knew you were friends and-" she cuts off, her voice deteriorating into sobs that echo through the phone and make Courfeyrac shiver. It is only then that he realises her use of past tense.

Jehan, who had been watching his boyfriend's conversation with increasing worry, is in no way prepared for Courfeyrac to suddenly stand up, untangling his hand from the poets and staggering to his feet. The frown is still etched into his features, and Jehan's heart flutters in distress. He wants to kiss the anguish away, wants to curl his hands into Courfeyrac's hair and press his lips to his temple so that he forgets whatever it is that is making him sad. But for now, at least, he can't do those things. So he just listens.

Courfeyrac is pacing now, one hand rubbing the back of his neck the way he does when he's nervous. "Madame?" He asks in slight desperation, catching sight of Combeferre's raised eyebrows and mouthing an exaggerated 'I don't know!" He runs a hand through his hair, forcing it into even more disarray than usual, and Jehan is about to stand up and comfort his boyfriend when Courfeyrac stops entirely.

Maybe 'stops' is the wrong word. Courfeyrac freezes, every muscle in his body going rigid in a millisecond. His eyes grow wide and his face becomes so pale so quickly that Jehan is momentarily worried he might be having some sort of fit. The poet shoots an alarmed look at Joly, but the medical student is watching Courfeyrac and doesn't catch his eye.

"Oh my god" Courfeyrac breathes, the words barely more than a rush of air. "Is he...?" His voice is so broken and _small _that Jehan wants to rip the phone away from him. There is a beat's pause, and then Courfeyrac exhales, all the air in his lungs whistling past his lips in a shuddering gasp. His knuckles tighten around the phone, so much so they become white, and as he gradually lowers his hand Jehan realises with a sickening jolt of panic that his boyfriend is shaking ever so slightly. He doesn't move, his eyes fixed on the floor and yet focused on nothing.

He stays that way for a good ten seconds before Combeferre intervenes. The medical student, who is stood closest to Courfyrac, slowly walks up to him and places a hand on his shoulder. Courfeyrac doesn't flinch, exactly, but he gasps sharply and his eyes focus again, looking right at Combeferre. Jehan stands quickly when he sees the distress his boyfriend is in, but before he can move anywhere Courfeyrac speaks.

"He's dead" he whispers, looking at no one but Combeferre, and when the latter blinks in confusion Courfeyrac elaborates in a choked breath. "Enjolras is dead."

No one moves. No one even breathes.

The room may as well be filled with ghosts for all the life there is, because it is simply impossible that this small group of students can still be here if Enjolras is not. Courfeyrac is definitely trembling now, his gaze sliding past Combeferre to land on the others. "He was hit by a car. This morning."

Jehan thinks the world might slide out from under him. Certainly, the apartment seems to be shifting and wavering, his head spinning out of control. He's hearing the words that Courfeyrac is saying, but his brain is refusing to accept them. Because they can't be true. They just can't.

"Are you sure?" Combeferre breathes, and the hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder is clenched in what must be a painfully tight grip, yet neither of them seem to notice. "He was pronounced dead at the scene, 'ferre. He's gone. Oh my god he's gone" Courfeyrac's voice cracks, and Jehan feels something break inside of him. The room is silent.

"No"

Jehan turns to see the speaker, though he already knows who it is. Of course he knows who it is. Enjolras has many friends, but only one disciple. Only one lover.

Grantaire stands up slowly, his eyes shining. "Don't you tell me he's gone." He's slightly drunk, not enough to blur his memory of this tomorrow but enough that he wobbles unsteadily as he stands.

"Grantaire-" Courfeyrac pleads, because they are all so close to shattering that a single outburst from Grantaire now will shatter what little control they have, but Grantaire cuts across him.

"Don't you dare stand there and tell me that Enjolras is dead, Courfeyrac, don't you fucking DARE-"

"Grantaire _please_" it's Combeferre who speaks this time, but his voice has as much effect as he expected it to. None.

"He's not dead! He CAN'T be dead! This stuff doesn't HAPPEN to people like us!"

Grantaire is shouting now, his voice thick, tears glistening in his eyes but not falling, not yet, and it is Combeferre who cuts across him, shouting his friends name because he _has_ to calm down, he _has_ to control the way his chest feels like it is tearing in two and the way his breath is short and sharp and his heart actually, physically _burns_ because if he doesn't they will all crumble to dust.

"GRANTAIRE!"

The bottle smashes against the wall behind Courfeyrac and Combeferre, and red liquid explodes onto the paintwork, dripping down to meet the carpet. Jehan thinks of blood (_not Enjolras's blood, not him, please god not him_) and wants to vomit. Combeferre is embracing Grantaire now, and the two of them sink to the floor together, holding onto each other as though for dear life. Grantaire is sobbing, his face buried in Combeferre's shoulder because he can't face a world without Enjolras; none of them can, and this is all too soon and too fast and everything is _wrong._

Courfeyrac hasn't moved, but tears are streaming down his face freely. Jehan goes to him in a daze and they slump to the floor together, as broken as the shards of glass behind them. Across the room, Joly is curled into Musichetta's arms, clutching Bousette's hand so tightly it might break. Feuilly is slumped against the wall next to Eponine, staring into nothingness with hands clenched into fists, and Bahorel is stood by the sofa, his entire body tensed so much that he's trembling. Cosette has buried her face into Marius's shoulder and wrapped her arms around his neck, and the young translator is staring into space, his face moulded into a grim look of complete shock and confusion.

They stay that way for a long time, the twelve of them seeking comfort where there is none to be found because their friend, their fearless leader, _their Enjolras_, is not there to give it. The room that should be filled with laughter and friendship is now thick with the sobbing of a broken hearted cynic and the sounds of the city that is still living, a world still turning, unaware that Apollo has returned to the heavens and will never come back. The marble statue finally cracked only to gush scarlet onto the floor of a world that will now never know nor care for the name of Enjolras.


End file.
